Sherlock's Kitten
by CassieWolfe
Summary: A series of short disconnected stories. Basically, Sherlock finds a dying kitten and brings it home. Inspired by a beautiful mental image of Sherlock handing John a small, wet kitten with no explanation. K for like one swear word.
1. Chapter 1

_**I will be randomly updating this when I have time, but it will be posted as complete. You're welcome to follow.**_

_**I own nothing.**_

_****Enjoy.****_

Sherlock Holmes, world's greatest consulting detective, was walking home, his step brisk and satisfied after a rewarding day checking out the corpse of a man who'd been murdered by his wife after she drove herself to insanity. She had somehow managed to dispatch him with nothing but a silver spoon, making it a most fascinating case.

Sherlock glanced down to avoid a puddle at the curb, and narrowly sidestepped a tiny tabby kitten. It looked barely more than a day old, and would surely die if left out. Sherlock bent and picked it up.

He really didn't want a cat. Oh well, perhaps John would know what to do with it.

_**The murder is a reference to the Eagles', "and she drove herself to madness with a silver spoon."**_


	2. Chapter 2

The door closed with a slam. John Watson jumped slightly, nearly knocking his laptop to the floor.

"Here," Sherlock said, dropping a damp bundle into John's lap. It seemed to consist of Sherlock's scarf and one very small, very wet kitten. "Take care of it."

"I'm sorry," John exclaimed. "What?"

"That is what you do, isn't it? Look after things?"

"Uh... sometimes, yes."

"Ah, well," the detective said, breezily dropping his coat over the back of a chair, "We can't all lead productive lives, eh, John?"


	3. Chapter 3

"You _what_?"

"Erm, yes, Mrs. Hudson, we want to keep a cat. Sherlock brought home an orphaned kitten today."

Their landlady sighed. "Well, that's a new one. Are you sure a cat will survive him?"

"Not at all," John said, "but I'll try and keep it – her – away from the experiments."

"It's a she, then?"

"Yes, we've named her Debbie. A little tabby."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "All right then, but you look after her, got it? No coming to me when Sherlock's dragging you out on some case and you can't leave her alone."

"Got it," John said. The battle was won.

**_The name Debbie is a tribute to the James Herriot story, The Christmas Kitten._**


	4. Chapter 4

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson?"

"What? It's midnight!"

"Well, that's the problem," John said tentatively. "Sherlock just _has_ to go out on a case – some guy got his heart ripped out in Times Square – and I can't leave Debbie. She has to be fed every three hours still, so I was wondering-"

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Hudson said with a sigh. "Give her here."

John handed the kitten over, privately wondering if he'd ever see her again.

**_Werewolf attack, obviously._**


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, ugh, put that thing down!"

Sherlock looked up curiously at the yell from the kitchen. John came tearing out, wearing a most impressive scowl.

"It's _your_ damn cat and _your_ damn experiment, _you _deal with it!" he exclaimed irritably. Sherlock got up to see what was making such a fuss.

In the kitchen, Debbie was batting a tentative paw at the finger Sherlock had put in the microwave. She'd somehow gotten it wedged in the sink drain. Sherlock sighed. Why couldn't he have thought before acting, for once? But no, now he was stuck with a cat.


	6. Chapter 6

John never wanted a cat. He's more of a dog person, but he never wanted a _pet_ in general. Because when you have pets, things like this happen. Things like waking up to a grisly crunching. Lying still, hoping he's dreaming, then opening his eyes to see, horror of horrors, a mouse spleen on his pillow.

For some reason, this never happens to Sherlock. Debbie never gives him 'gifts' of desiccated birds and torn-to-shreds grass snakes. (In his opinion, cat 'gifts' are rather like dick pics; flattering, maybe, but not something he particularly craves.)

Not for the first time, he curses himself for not giving the little tabby kitten to the RSPCA when his flat-mate first brought her home.


	7. Chapter 7

"So, dear brother," Mycroft starts from his spot on the sofa, then breaks off. He pulls out a handkerchief and sneezes violently. John is so startled by this breach of dignity, he stares in disbelief.

"Yes?" Sherlock asks, the picture of innocence.

"You see why I-" he sneezes again. "Why I need you too-" and again.

"Sherlock," he inquires, wrapping the shreds of his pride about him, "is there a _cat_ in here?"

"Oh!" the detective exclaims, "I quite forgot! Yes, we got a cat a few weeks ago. Why?"

"You know quite well," Mycroft says stiffly, "that I am allergic. I will be going now."

"Are you sure you won't stay for a cup of tea?" Sherlock asks pseudo-politely.

Mycroft responds witheringly, "Quite, thank you." The withering effect is, it must be admitted, rather ruined by another sneeze.

That is the last time the British Government deigns to visit their flat.


	8. Chapter 8

"... and the bruising on her neck suggests that-" John broke off.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" he asked, exasperated.

"Yes?" his flatmate said hesitantly. One hand at the scarf about his neck, Sherlock was looking distinctly shifty. A moment later John knew why.

"Mew?" Sherlock's scarf said quietly. Then louder, "Mew."

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Did you bring Debbie to a crime scene?"

"No!" Sherlock denied.

Giving him the Stare Of Disapproval, John strode over and peeked into his friend's scarf. Sure enough, a tiny tabby head stared up at him.

The doctor sighed again – something he suspected he would be doing a lot of in the near future.


	9. Chapter 9

John was reading quietly when it happened. Sherlock was lying on the couch with Debbie on his chest – for a man who professed to dislike animals, he rather adored the kitten. Suddenly, the quiet was disturbed by a sound John had never expected to hear. A giggle.

He looked up, disbelieving, but all was still. A moment after returning to his book, he heard it again. Sherlock Holmes was giggling. This time, when John turned to observe the scene, he saw Debbie, perched on her favourite bed – Sherlock – licking his chin. This was causing the quiet giggles John had heard.

After a minute, she moved to his neck. This, to John's delight, caused much louder giggles and a complaint or two. Stealthily, he took out his phone to film the sight. Mycroft would be delighted!


End file.
